The Soldier's Rebel Lover

‘No, I don’t suppose we were.’ Finlay stooped to gather some of her hairpins from the ground, handing them to her with a rueful smile. ‘You are the most distracting lass I’ve ever come across. I look at you, and my head says one thing and my body something else entirely.’

‘My body is not in the least bit interested in what my head is saying at this moment.’

Finlay’s eyes darkened. ‘Dear heavens, nor is mine.’ He reached for her, then pulled his hand away as if he had been burned. ‘We need to talk. We need to decide—you are El Fantasma. I still can’t get my head around that one.’ He gave himself a little shake. ‘Aye. Right. El Fantasma. We need to think about what we do next. I had already taken the precaution of making some prior arrangements on the assumption I would track him—you—down, but...’

His words brought Isabella tumbling firmly back to earth. ‘I am not interested in your arrangements. There’s nothing to think about, nothing to discuss,’ she said sharply. ‘Now you know the truth, you can return to England forthwith and tell the Duke of Wellington that El Fantasma thanks him for his concern but has no desire for, or need of rescue.’

He stared at her for a long moment. She could not read his thoughts. In truth, she did not really wish to contemplate his leaving here, not just yet. It would be a huge relief to be able to be herself for a little while longer, in this beguiling man’s company.

‘Isabella, can you not see...’

‘Finlay, can you not see!’ She grabbed his arm. ‘I know what I am doing. You have no right to interfere.’

‘I’m trying to save your life.’

‘And I am trying to save many, many other lives,’ she declared hotly. ‘I wish I had not told you.’

He paused in the act of putting his coat on. ‘Why did you?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve never told anyone else. I suppose I hoped you would understand.’ She began to stick pins randomly into her hair. ‘I thought that you would see we were similar. You were wrong when you told me I don’t know what it is to be a soldier, don’t you see? I am a soldier, just like you. You cannot expect me to do anything other than stay and fight this battle, when it is exactly what you would do if the roles were reversed.’

He was silent for a long time, his brow furrowed. When he spoke again, it was with a deliberate detachment. ‘There’s little to be gained by us arguing from implacably opposed viewpoints. We both have a lot to digest and reflect on. I’m going for a wee walk. I’ll see you at dinner.’

He turned and began to make his way up the track, leaving Isabella to stare at his retreating back, fighting the urge to call him back to convince him of the validity of her case and the equally strong urge to call him back and demand that he finish what he had started.

* * *

Finlay strode off up the hill towards the tree line. Is fheàrr teicheadh math na droch fhuireach. Better a good retreat than a bad stand. He was not running away, but though it went against the grain with him to leave Isabella alone after all that had happened, he knew if he stayed it would be a strategic miscalculation.

‘You need to start thinking with your head, and stop letting yourself be driven by your other body parts, my lad,’ he muttered under his breath. He could feel Isabella’s eyes on him as he climbed the steep path. He quickened his pace, forcing himself to ignore the urge to look back. Upward, onward, away he marched, just short of a run, enjoying the way the exercise made his heart beat faster, the way the fresh air stabbed at his lungs. And finally, as he cleared the tree line and emerged on the next ridge and his calf muscles began to protest, finally, his head began to clear itself of the fog of confusion triggered by this latest bewildering turn of events.

He stopped, taking deep, recuperative breaths, and looked at the landscape spread out below him. Ochre soil, the warm yellow stone of Hermoso Romero, the regimented row of pruned vines, the soft green foliage of cypress trees, the pale winter blue of the sky and the silvery lemon of the winter sun. It was a beautiful place, no doubt about it. If he lived here, he’d be loath to leave. But it wasn’t all this beauty that made Isabella determined to remain here—it was all the things you couldn’t see. The poverty. The injustice. The constraints of the old ways. The same feudal culture that made her brother the region’s biggest landowner and one of its most influential men. It was ironic that Xavier Romero represented all the things Isabella wanted to change.

‘And I can’t blame her for fighting for change, since by and large I share her views,’ Finlay said, smiling to himself as he recalled the fire in Isabella’s eyes as she had spoken of El Fantasma’s cause. He squatted down on his heels, wiping the sweat from his forehead. The death of the old ways, a new beginning, a new world. Hadn’t he been fighting for the same things himself?